Three Shades of Brown

“Encik Brown will see you now,” said the secretary to the visitor.

The visitor was a young lady wearing a blue cardigan over a white blouse. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders, unencumbered by the lack of a tudung. She was led to a huge office with black-and-white furnishings and glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Sitting behind a vast black oak desk was a handsome young man in his late 20s, clad in a well-fitted suit. Upon seeing her approaching, he stood up and offered his hand.

“Pleased to meet you. I am Pastafarian Brown.”

“I’m Ana,” she said, and found herself in an intensely firm handshake, like he was trying to squeeze juice out from a sugar cane. “Ana binte Mandingo. I’m a reporter from The Daily Durian.”

“Please, take a seat.”

Ana stared at him incredulously. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Ana scanned the room, and saw an ornate red chair with Balinese motifs carved into its wood. She walked to it and patted its cushion. “I’ll take this one, but I really don’t know how I’m going to carry it home.”

Encik Brown buried his face in his palms for a brief moment. “No, Ana, I mean sit down here.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk.

“Ah, got it.” Sheepishly, she took the seat she sat down on the chair opposite Encik Brown’s.

“So, you’re here to interview me?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you writing about?”

“I’m doing a profile story about successful young businessmen, and in this issue, I’m writing about you. The article will be titled Three Shades of Brown.”

“Why three shades? Why not ten or seventeen? Or fifty?”

Ana smiled nervously, avoiding eye contact. “Well, you know…”

“I don’t.”

“Because of our readership.”

“What about them?”

“Well, you know, they’re mostly Malay people. They can’t…”

She trailed off, and Encik Brown held her gaze, waiting.

“They can’t count to fifty,” she finished.

“Ah, I am not going to question that. So what shall we begin with?”

“Well, firstly, I want to ask what makes your business, uh…” Ana flipped through her notebook to find her notes on the nature of Encik Brown’s business.

“Brown’s Jambans,” Encik Brown finished for her.

“Yes, Brown’s Jambans, ,” she continued, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “What do you think is the secret to the success of Brown’s Jambans?”

Encik Brown loosened his tie, and leaned forward. “Have you heard of the phrase, ‘when shit hits the fan’?”

Ana nodded, taking in Encik Brown’s deep, soulful voice, and the way his intense eyes twinkled with potent fire.

“Well, Brown’s Jambans ensure that never happens by keeping shit in the sewage, and away from fans. With Brown’s Jambans, shit never hits the fan.”

“You’re the leading Jamban provider for celebrities in Singapore. They’re even in the toilets of parliament.”

“The celebrities? Yes, that is the unfortunate case sometimes.”

“No, I meant your toilet bowls. Your jambans.”

“Yes, I think I got them toilet bowled over with the quality of my jambans. My jambans are the main reason shit never hits the fan in our politics. I would like to believe that I’ve contributed enormously to our political stability.”

“I’ll be sure to use that quote,” Ana said. She flipped a page on her notebook. “It’s rare for a man your age to reach the heights that you have. How much higher do you think you can go?”

“It depends on the strain, and how much I’ve been smoking,” replied Encik Brown. As Ana scribbled furiously into her notepad, Encik Brown stood up. “Ana, do you want to take this interview to a more casual setting?”

Ana put her pen down, and looked up at Encik Brown. “You mean like a McDonald’s?”

He shook his head. “Let’s have this interview at my place,” he said commandingly, as though he was ordering satay.

“Now?”

“Yes,” said Encik Brown. “I have private transportation to take us there.”

“Ooh, like a private helicopter?”

“No,” he said, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “Even better.”

“A private jet?”

“No, even better than that.” He leaned in, such that she could feel his breath against her skin. “A vespa.”

Before long, they were speeding along the Pan-Island Expressway (or the PIE), to the giant mansion that Encik Brown called home.

Once they were past the threshold of his door, they were kissing urgently.

“Talk dirty to me,” she said as he led her to his bedroom.

“Talk dirty? You sure?”

“Yes,” she moaned, as she straddled him. “Call me something sexy.”

“Oh you’d like that, won’t you, you…you hantu tetek!” he moaned back.

Ana got off him. “Dude, what?”

“What?”

“How is that sexy?”

“It’s the breast ghost of Malay mythology. Tell me how that is not sexy?”

Encik Brown grabbed her and began kissing her with fervour. They got pretty far along into it, when Encik Brown decided to try something new and totally, completely original. “Who’s your daddy?” he asked. “Siapa bapak kau?”

“Oh!” cried Ana as waves of ecstasy consumed her. “Mandingo!”

Now it was Encik Brown’s turn to stop. “Whoa did you just call out your father’s name?”

“Yeah. Well, you asked me who my daddy was, and I told you!”

“No, Ana!” said Encik Brown dejectedly. “I am your daddy.”

“What? No way!” She paused. “Also, that would make whatever we’re doing highly illegal.”

Encik Brown got up, and held out his hand. Ana took it. He said, “I think I know how to make this work.”

He led her down the hallway, to a solid steel door with a rather large keyhole. He pulled down his pants and thrusted his groin towards it. There was a loud whooshing tremble, like a WANGGGG, followed by a high-pitched squeal followed by a click, like a PEEEETER, followed by a gong-like sound like DONGGG.

Encik Brown retracted his groin, and opened the door. Ana stepped in. It was a grey room, furnished with what seemed like torture devices of the sexual nature. Encik Brown took something from a nearby table, and held it to the light.

It was a pair of handcuffs. Ana gasped.

Encik Brown smiled. “Are you ready to put the Minah in Dominahtrix?”

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Published by Suffian Hakim

Suffian Hakim woke up one day and discovered that he had inadvertently grown into an adult. In the ensuing panic, he began a career as a writer, contributing articles and scripts to local magazines, advertisements and television shows. Had he not chosen writing as a career path, he would have been a satay connoisseur, or a botanist.
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